Chapter 9: The Courage of a Skirmish Line?

Mackensen snatched the telegram and tore it open, the rustling of paper the only sound in the tent.

A moment later, a strange expression of disbelief crossed his face—a mixture of fury and bewilderment that eventually settled into a cold sneer. He walked over to his staff officers and slapped the telegram onto the table.

"Look at this. This is the decision of our General Staff."

The commander of the 16th Brigade picked up the telegram cautiously. One glance was all it took for his expression to become as dramatic as Mackensen’s.

"Authorizing the expeditionary force within the Kingdom of Aragon to immediately launch 'necessary military actions'... but requesting that you... return home immediately for recuperation?"

The order left everyone present stunned. To remove a general who had just suffered a humiliating defeat and was burning with a desire for vengeance right before the battle began? What was this—replacing a commander on the eve of a campaign?

"General Prittwitz will assume your command..." the Chief of Staff read the rest with great difficulty.

"Prittwitz..." Mackensen repeated the name, a mocking curl at the corner of his mouth. "That coward who only dares to fight defensive battles when he has superior numbers? You want him to command an offensive?"

He looked around, his gaze finally settling on the battle plan. A flicker of reluctance crossed his eyes, but a moment later, he seemed to have made up his mind and let out a cold snort.

"Since the operational authorization has been issued, follow the plan you just drafted. Drive the Kingdom’s army and the Bretons out of Seville for me!"

The old general’s voice was not loud, but it carried an unquestionable resolve.

"Until that fool Prittwitz arrives, I am still the commander of the Expeditionary Force! 'Necessary military actions,' right? I’ll show them exactly what is 'necessary'!"

***

While Mackensen and the others waited anxiously in the brigade headquarters, the 1st Battalion of the 33rd Infantry Regiment, where Morin was stationed, had already begun its advance.

Nightfall is the best cover for large-scale infantry movements.

Three infantry companies, along with the battalion’s various attached units and supply convoys, moved silently along the dirt roads like a long, grey snake. The basic tactical unit of the Saxon Imperial Army was the battalion, and the organization of the march column was centered around this, maintaining perfect order.

Aside from the crunch of boots on gravel and the occasional sound of hooves from a passing courier, the force of nearly a thousand men made almost no noise. Discipline had long since seeped into the marrow of this army.

Morin led his platoon within the march column of the 3rd Company. The initial tension and awkwardness he felt had quickly faded once the march began. His body seemed to have been activated by its original factory settings; how to adjust his breathing, how to pace his physical exertion, how to observe the condition of his soldiers from the corner of his eye—these skills of a qualified junior officer surfaced as naturally as instinct. Coupled with the knowledge and experience he had gained as a cadet in the strongest land force on Blue Star before his transmigration, Morin did not even need to think to subconsciously judge whether the column’s speed was steady or if the spacing between soldiers was too loose or too tight.

It was a strange feeling, like a veteran player of an RTS game with thousands of hours under his belt—even with a new account, the micro-management and tactical awareness were already etched into his DNA. At least on a physical level, he was already a true Saxon second lieutenant.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the roadside trees, casting mottled spots of light on the soldiers' spiked helmets. The air was cool, carrying the scent of soil and grass, mixed with a faint, lingering trace of gunpowder—as if the wind were bringing an ominous omen from the direction of Seville.

About two hours later, the force arrived at the designated assembly area. It was a sparse forest near the road, with slightly undulating terrain, convenient for concealment. As Major Thomas, the battalion commander, gave the order, passed down by couriers level by level, the 1st Battalion quickly shifted from march formation to combat readiness.

The entire force dispersed by company and platoon, skillfully finding cover and hiding spots. The low, buzzing sound of officers conferring replaced the silence of the march, and an atmosphere of tension and anticipation permeated the woods.

Just as Morin was settling his men into the woodland, Sergeant Klaus of his platoon walked up to him and lowered his voice.

"Platoon leader, a courier just came by. Company headquarters wants to see you."

"Understood."

Morin nodded, handed his rifle to his orderly, adjusted his uniform and equipment belt, and headed toward the flickering oil lamps deep in the woods. That was the temporary command post for the 3rd Company, where Captain Hauser was huddled with two other platoon leaders over a map spread out on the ground.

"Morin, you're here. Perfect."

Captain Hauser saw him, waved him over, and pointed to the map. "Bad news and good news—which one do you want first?"

The familiar opening line made the corner of Morin’s mouth twitch. "Sir, whenever you ask that, it usually means both pieces of news are pretty terrible."

Captain Hauser chuckled, but quickly composed himself, his expression turning serious.

"The bad news is that the combat order has been issued. Our 1st Battalion is the first echelon of the entire regiment’s attack. We are to assault the village ahead, called San Isidro, from the front."

He picked up a pencil and drew a thick, heavy arrow on the map, pointing directly at the village marker. Morin’s heart sank. This was indeed bad news—the worst kind. Frontal assault, first echelon... those two terms combined were basically synonymous with "heavy casualties."

"And... the good news?" he asked, clinging to a shred of hope.

"The good news is," Captain Hauser’s tone lightened, "our 3rd Company is the battalion reserve. The 1st and 2nd Companies go in first; we enter the battle depending on the situation, or to plug any gaps."

Morin nodded, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. To be honest, although he had gradually started to look like a Saxon Imperial second lieutenant, he had absolutely no desire to sacrifice his life for this foreign country. If he didn't know that being a deserter was not only shameful but carried severe consequences, he would have found a way to slip away long ago. Although being the reserve for the first assault echelon wasn't perfectly safe, at least he wouldn't be the first to charge in and use his flesh and blood to test the enemy's firepower.

*Live a little longer, just live a little longer...* Morin thought to himself while considering his next move.

However, when his gaze landed back on the spread-out tactical map, more memories belonging to this body from the military academy were awakened. More and more knowledge about the Saxon Imperial Army—or rather, about the ground warfare of this world—surfaced in his mind, and it made Morin realize that things were going terribly wrong.

Looking at the map, the attack arrows representing the 1st and 2nd Companies had a very narrow front. The 1st Company’s three infantry platoons were to deploy into three successive 150-meter-wide skirmish lines, advancing slowly with soldiers spaced 1-2 meters apart, suppressing the enemy front with rifle volleys during the advance. About 100 meters behind the 1st Company, the 2nd Company would follow in dense company columns, ready to launch a bayonet charge once the 1st Company opened a gap.

No flanking, no infiltration, and certainly no tactical planning involving squad-level alternating cover and dispersed penetration like in later eras.

Some ominous memories began to flash through his mind. He recalled what the original owner of this body had learned at the military academy—tactical theories that the instructors had boasted about with great fervor in the classroom.

"Saxon Shock Tactics," "The Courage of the Skirmish Line," "The Devastating Power of Regimental Attack Clusters"...

Scenes of instruction flashed through his brain. He remembered how that grey-haired tactics instructor had praised, in an almost fanatical tone, the "magnificent sight" of soldiers lining up in skirmish formation, like a grey tide, marching to the beat of drums and walking resolutely toward enemy positions in the face of artillery fire. At the time, the original owner of this body, like all the other students, had felt his blood boil, believing this to be the ultimate embodiment of the glory of a Saxon soldier.

But now, with the soul of a 21st-century military cadet, Morin just felt sick.

The ground warfare of this world, even with the existence of extraordinary powers like "Magitech" and "Armored Knights," remained at the level of the early First World War in terms of conventional infantry tactics. They still clung to a superstitious belief in the courage and discipline of the soldiers, and in the impact force of dense formations.

It’s over.

He had actually caught the swan song of the dense formation charge!